#it makes the metaphor so much more fucked too

[bialbovi]

I know I don't need a label to live but god do I feel miserable sometimes (paradoxically from the label and the unknown)

I am genuinely happy for my friends and their love but it is such a maze for me and maybe that's how it's supposed to feel

I've confused a friendship with what my ex friend considered "romantic" and I regretted it when I agreed to date, all this was resolved later because I confessed our feelings vary a lot

Thing is I do not feel miserable because I do not have a partner right now, absolutely not, I feel so happy because I get free time for myself and for my friends and other stuff and hobbies

I don't even want to date right now or anytime soon. And I still hang out with my friends and I am satisfied. Socially, I mean. But in the future I would love for it to work out with a future friend

I feel miserable because I am afraid that this label is going to fit way too well and I wish I was wrong. I wish I'll discover that I'm an aromantic who can feel romantic attraction just a little. for just like one person. it's scary because I don't know how it's supposed to feel

maybe I'm just an aromantic asshole who has suuuuuper unrealistic expectations, that could be the case as well

but... when would it ever stop me? I am well aware that we are all imperfect works in progress and I really want to think people are comfortable with me, or well most of them. I try to approach most people I meet, because gods I love meeting people and getting to know them, and if we establish trust we can talk about more complicated stuff and I am like down to. Because I cannot handle smalltalk constantly, we need to throw in some deeper thoughts and- and

I don't know

It just feels funny because out of all people why am I, the one who is (100%, I am so fucking sensitive) very sensitive and emotional and overthinking and overanalyzing and you know. It's funny that I'm the one who just doesn't get romantic attraction and if it happened to me like right now I'd be scared shitless. Because I don't want the chemistry of my brain to decide what I feel randomly. Like I know love from the first sight is most likely an overblown thing but also people somehow get magnetized and they just stick to each other and then just something happens. Maybe I just love everyone??? Maybe my problem is I want to have a relationship somewhere in the future but this someone has to be a friend first, but that's like the bare minimum?? That's how normal people would build a relationship, would they not?? (I mean you can date even if you know each other for a week but hey. trust issues)

It's also funny because I actually love fandom shipping, oh I love pairings so much, I love putting my own characters into relationships and I love it when some pairing clicks with my preferences. but like hell I don't even know what they are feeling and I am probably dooming the romance a little too much but I like poetic shit. I just wish. I experienced a fraction of this. but not right now because I'd be uncomfortable. I want to dissect my brain. We could argue that "Hey Albo you probably write them through the lens of friends with benefits" DING DING DING WRONG. well not entirely because it feels like how I view relationships in general is friends. with benefits. but not entirely but like??? this shit is so complicated. none of my ocs are officially friends with benefits lmao they and my favourits characters have "proper" relationships. Maybe the reason why I like pairings is my creative attempt to tap into something I have not experienced. and ofc these relationships are not perfect but that's what I love about characters and people and------

Maybe that means I am not a lost cause entirely? But like... I understand the deeper connection between people but I have not felt it if it makes sense. I can't come up with a metaphor you get me

But I cannot see myself in a relationship. And I really want to.

And I am well aware that relationships do not have to fit a structure or be stereotypical, it can be anything

But also..thinking about relationships still makes me want to prioritize my autonomy and it feels like a relationship takes so much of your time, and some type of force keeps people together for decades, even living together. "duh Albo that's what you do in a relationship, usually". I know! And I still dedicate time to my friends but it feels like getting into a relationship would be very restricting.... or maybe I am hoping for the only ideal unrealistic option again..... sigh

Even though I could keep living as I do now, for some reason I am afraid my friends are going to eventually prioritize their significant others. we should not go there right now

I just don't want to stay alone forever.

I know there are demisexuals but that's not my case entirely

and yes even though I think I still have the label bisexual somewhere every single time pride month arrives I put the green stripes on my accounts because well it stays consistent for now

and I am in my early 20's oops

what is wrong with me (rhetorical)

Aromantics who want a relationship are Valid

Aromantics who DON'T want a relationship are a Valid

Aromantics who hope to feel romantic attraction are Valid

Aromantics who feel a LITTLE romantic attraction are Valid

Aromantics who are romance repulsed are Valid.

Aromantics that enjoy sex are Valid

Aromantics who "Sleep around" are Valid

Aromantics who want kids are Valid

Aroaces are Valid

Allosexual Aromantics are Valid

Queer Aromantics are Valid

Hetro Aromantics are Valid

AROMANTICS ARE FUCKING VALID

[elliesgaymachete]

i am personally quite conflicted about whatever is happening with this campaign and bells hells, but i wanted to say something about giving the gods a choice: if someone came to your house with a shotgun pointed at you and told you that you can either leave or stay but become a monkey, would you actually consider that a free choice? whith a shotgun pointed at you?

Let me take your analogy and help you understand

Imagine there’s a house you grew up in. It’s the only home you’ve ever known, you’ve always lived there, you know no other home and can’t imagine living anywhere else. Then some entity that’s stronger than you and smarter than you and bigger than you and more powerful than you comes along and says, “this is my house now”. You couldn’t fight them even if you wanted to because they’re so unbelievably powerful so you say sure and let them take over your house.

For the most part it’s fine, fairly normal, but every so often, they put in a display of power like emptying out the fridge so no one can eat, or turning off the electricity, or kicking someone out of the house, or even killing someone. They just want to make sure you don’t get too comfortable and know who’s in charge here. They see you as so much lesser, but it’s such a kind mercy that they let you stay here with them.

They don’t talk to you anymore, but they talk to other people, whisper in their ears, help out whenever it benefits them. These people listen to whatever they say and have become the security of the house. Sometimes they punish you for doing something wrong or kick you out of your bedroom so they can turn it into their office. So you go share a room with someone else or sleep on the couch.

Whenever they get mad you’re afraid you might freeze or go hungry or die in your own fucking house. Maybe next time they’ll get so angry they just set the whole place on fire and watch while you burn and then collect the insurance payout. You and everyone else has long since accepted this as the status quo and it feels like nothing can be done. But, you’re still just trying to live in your house

If you finally found something you could use to fight this guy, would you use it? But to offer them a choice of “get out of my house or give up your power and join me down here and we can all live at the same level”? That’s a big fucking mercy in my opinion

Clearly this is an imperfect metaphor, as you’ve probably realized at this point. The situation is so much more nuanced than that. And i think that, given everything Bells Hells knows and has gone through, they found a fantastic solution to this divisive problem

[gilverrwrites]

💦 + ⛓️+ 🔪 + 🎉 for AK!Jason & Deathstroke with Batgirl!Reader with breastmilk

For reference/to make it easier to request in future, I call that reader character [BatBrat!Reader.]

Warning: NON CON. Amongst other things (see tags)

💦 cum headcanon

Jason is at the top of whatever sordid hierarchy this arrangement is. He's running the operation, he signs the metaphorical cheques that keep Slade loyal. He owns the safehouse you're chained up in.

Slade considers his involvement to be purely a benefit of the job, you are to him what pizza parties are to a retail worker. Though Jay thinks of him more like a scavenger, feeding off his scraps.

Either way, as top dog, Jay has asserted very clearly that he is the only one allowed to cum inside your needy pussy. Of course, you can't stop him from cumming anywhere he wants, but he especially likes to fuck you raw and bark into your ear about breeding you. Even if you escape, how are you going to resume your vigilante duties when you're round and heavy, knocked up with The Arkham Knight’s baby, huh?

Slade knows where his bread is buttered, he isn't going to kick up a fuss about where he's permitted to dump his spunk, even if he did care. Slade prefers to see some more active participation anyway. He likes making you work for it. So he’ll fuck whatever hole takes his fancy until he's right on the edge, then pull and release into his hand, or on the floor, basically anywhere so he can bully you into cleaning it up with your mouth.

⛓️ kinky headcanon

AK and Deathstroke are certainly beyond rough with you. They're twisted, and perverse; keeping you like a pet, using your body like a toy, drinking your milk, injecting you with pheromones that make you crave their abuse.

But this isn't good, clean, kinky fun. This isn’t even remotely how kink is supposed to work. There's no safe word. Their end goal here isn't to convert you, or to pleasure you.

This is torture, meant to incapacitate and belittle you. You're a pawn, helping them one-up Batman, another broken chesspiece Jason can dangle in his former mentor's face to remind him what a fuck-up he is, that he’s not a hero, that Jay can take anything and everything from him.

Sure, Jay prefers when you're into it, but he likes it just as much when you're screaming, crying, and trying to fight them off.

🔪 dangerous headcanon

They like for you to think that you're in danger. You're by no means completely complacent, but when you've been roughed up and beat down, there's a lot less bite in you.

It's funny;

That Slade likes to pretend to be the good guy, tapping into his warped ‘fatherly’ mindset, picking you up and dusting you off when you need it, scolding Jason when he's seemingly being a little too careless with you. When in fact, he could and would easily do irreparable damage to, or even kill you for the right price.

And that Jason, whose bark is just as bad as his bite, who gets in your face, to spit the vilest and most vicious threats, who keeps you chained up, and handles you like you're a ragdoll; would never let anything actually dangerous happen to you. He'd never admit it, not even to himself. He took you because you were a problem, because you needed to be brought down and reminded that you're not better than him. But he might actually snap (even more) if anything truly bad happened, especially under his watch.

🎉 celebration sex headcanon

You don't really get to participate in celebration sex.

No, that's not quite true.

You're very much involved in celebration sex, only you're not celebrating.

Because when AK and Slade celebrate their wins: they’re celebrate taking down your friends, assuming control of the city, and freeing the supervillains that will destroy it. They celebrate Bruce’s downfall. Every time they celebrate, that little glimmer of hope that you might be saved dimmers just a little bit more.

[wajjs]

I’m a bit curious on Hal’s personality in his depictions. From what I know is that early hal was headstrong, cocky, kind of a goofball, and detached (dissociating away his fear and averse to commitment). This seems to be the version of Hal that most people write.

But then there’s the whole Parallax thing, and the Spectre run. I don’t know much about it but it seems hal gets a lot more subdued and melancholy as the spectre. And then after that he comes back as flesh and bone.

So what is he like at the end of that?

Pre-Johns and pre-Parallax Hal tended to be more happy go lucky, stupid, and generally doe eyed hopeful "the system that fucked me over once definitely won't do it again!" type of man. He was also entitled at times. But this is mostly true up until around the time of Hard Traveling Heroes, which is when he starts to be heartbroken and melancholic, traits that persist until the climax of Emerald Twilight.

A lot of people say Emerald Twilight came from nowhere and I disagree. I think those people weren't paying attention, because all the signs were there. Hal had been steadily becoming more disillusioned and melancholic through the 70s and 80s until we get to the 90s, where that heartbreak gets amplified to the nth degree. Hal didn't go from stupid to mad with grief without a transition period in the middle. But a lot of people think once a run from x writer ends, it no longer counts for the next one, and so they say the tragedy came from nowhere.

At the very start of the 90s, Hal has a lot of suicidal ideation going on. The run itself begins with him more or less saying "There’s nowhere else to go" (paraphrasing) and throwing himself off a cliff. He waits until he's almost crashing head first into the ground to pull himself out of there using his ring. He's flirting with the thought of death.

He is also self sabotaging. He pulls back from everyone and turns himself into a homeless man who lives on the road because he's looking for a sense of self, a meaning to life he has lost. He becomes a seasonal worker because he needs something to do, but those jobs never last because the life he's trying to leave behind (in the shape of Guy Gardner) keeps metaphorically knocking on the door and dragging him back to Green Lantern.

Even when he comes back, he chooses to do solitary things. For example: exploring space to recruit more GLs, that keeps interactions to a minimum. It's all things that are brewing in a pressure cooker that blows up when Coast City is destroyed in front of Hal's eyes and the hero community drops the ball. Hard.

They all say well, it’s not MY city. They all say get over it. Clark goes and creates a monument using scraps of the very bomb that killed everyone and everything Hal knew all his life, and immediately after that Clark is in Metropolis enjoying the sun and saying aaaaah. what a nice day.

And Hal doesn't snap immediately. The tension is there, but at first he does try to keep it together until it becomes impossible. He tries to reconstruct Coast City, but there are limits to what the ring can do. The one thing he could depend on, his will power, is not enough. He is not enough. His grief and anger become so big that his mind just... fractures. He snaps. No one's listening and no one's helping, so he will take matters into his own hands and make. it. right.

This Hal is angry. This Hal has a heart with a hole that threatens to kill him at any moment but he endures because he cannot die until he does what needs to be done. This Hal refuses the help that comes too late, he has killed his friends, he has destroyed the corps, he has killed Sinestro. Kyle arrives like a lighthouse in the middle of the storm but for Hal it's too late because he has driven his ship into the cliff and is letting it sink with himself still in it.

He is mad at himself and mad at the world for failing Coast City and all the innocent lives lost. He almost becomes a god, and is perceived as a god by some due to the power he now possesses. There are moments when clarity hits him and the old wounded heartbroken Hal shows his face, and he is dying. His pain is so palpable. His anguish. The old Hal wants help. But Parallax Hal does not want to be saved.

Of course, the status quo changes with the events of Final Night. Hal sacrifices himself to save the Earth. He sees that only in death will his anger stop, and he sees that he's the only one who can do what no one else could do for Coast City. It's a no brainer. He sacrifices himself and burns himself to a crisp reigniting the sun. Hal doesn’t expect to come back. He doesn’t want to come back. This is HIS final night.

Unfortunately, The Spectre had other plans. His anger morphs into straight up depression because now he is alive enough to deal with the outcome of what he did as Parallax. He has to live with the tragedy of what he lost and the tragedy of what he did. Few people stand by his side and want to give him a chance. Very few people recognize there's good in him. Most want to see him dead and gone. He himself wants to be dead and gone. Helen, his niece, being there definitely helps him not lose it, not lose himself. She is his hope. She is the innocence he lost and he will never get back.

After all of this, he is more grounded, mature. Still melancholic. Still haunted by everything that happened. He is cocky, of course, and self assured, because at the end of the day those are the things he can cling to with some sort of safety net. But they're also things he uses to keep the raw wounds hidden.

Post Johns? Yeah like more than half of this is lost because Hal’s the greatest hero ever and he can do no wrong. He is headstrong, overconfident, cocky, and ultimately good, but he is missing like half of his soul.

[neoneun-au]

what the fuck

i was going to read one of the other (more recent) fics youve posted but when i went to your masterlist i remembered that i had never actually read this one. whether timing or whatever, i know i had started it a few times but i was just so distracted that i never got very far, though i knew one day would be the right time to sink into it. guess that was today

literally from the first paragraph i felt so so immersed in it. the setting, the narrative, the tone--everything was painted with such a fine, delicate brush. it just completely enveloped me and i was so so hooked immediately

i already knew youre a good writer. obviously. that was never in question. but there was something so transcendant about this one in particular. the allusions to fruit and food metaphors throughout, never too much but just enough to really pad the writing with such beauty and dynamism. it was just such a treat. such a complete joy to read.

it was so potent too, emotionally. i could feel it in the pit of my stomach the entire time. heart on edge, just waiting for a pin to drop. for the tension to let off. it walked such a fine balance of introspection and external forces and the whole time i just felt like i was on the edge of a cliff, wind whipping past, staring out over the horizon and just waiting for...something. waiting to jump, to fall, to be pushed, to see a ship come over a crest of a wave. it was just so deliciously paced and poignantly felt. im at a loss for words (obviously not literally since i keep typing but you know lol)

i was so immersed i didnt get much of a chance to clip out specific passages but there were a few that really stood out while reading enough to pull me out of my trance

this passage is everything. its the perfect example of how expertly crafted this entire thing was written as well. the choice of words, the sentence structure. it all comes together so well to convey the depth hiding in this humble farmer!au. it made me want to cry. very intensely. because havent we all felt this at some point. this yearning. this deep maw of need. greed for more.

then this line made me want to kill myself ! (in a good metaphorical way lol) these two back to back just. my god.

the readers imposter syndrome and their self sabotaging that always always ripples out to affect the lives of those that simply love them. so felt. so seen. so beautifully portrayed by you, dear writer.

"without your fingerprints all over him"

wow.

your writing is so lush. its so evocative. i have a hard time grasping for words that might convey how i felt about this and i continually come up short but im just in awe of how beautiful this story is. and to think i got to read it for free on tumblr dot com and it was written by such a dear, lovely, otherwise incredibly busy person lol

ill close my thoughts here by saying that ive read a lot of books in the last little while. a few classics. some that really resonated while i was reading them but that sort of drifted off as time went on and i wasnt present in their narratives anymore. i loved them. but i love this more. i can feel this slotting into my brain and lingering there at the edges. it makes me want to write.

TO GROW LOVE (AND EAT IT TO THE CORE)

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 8.1k summary: your whole life, you've only wanted one thing. then you meet mingyu. suddenly you want too much, and you wish the summer never ended. notes: farmer!au, established relationship, angst/hurt/a little comfort

this is a birthday fic for my one and only cat @wuahae ! yes this is about half a year late but what can i say. all good things come with time. thank you for being so kind, funny, and thoughtful (and patient)! not a day goes by where i’m not thankful for our friendship :)

and a million thanks to hana @wqnwoos and jackie @97-liners for helping me with edits. literally you guys are insane writers and i will never stop looking up to you.

i. strawberries (the summer we were young)

When a strawberry is ripe, the seeds push out from the heart of the fruit, as if it's bursting from the inside out.

This is one of the few and only things you've learned by living in Seogwipo, where strawberry season comes like a supernova. The May sun, full and heavy, peels into summer, and the roadside farms open their doors, trying to catch stray vacationers from Jeju City on the other side of the island.

That being said, there are approximately two things to do here. One of them is farm. The other is pretend like you have a life, which is your childhood friend Yizhuo's favorite thing to do when she's back from university on summer break.

Today, this involved convincing her ritzy, too-good Seoul friends that they're missing out on this side of Jeju. (Missing out on what? You're not sure. Perhaps the chipped paint of the mural walls, or the endless flat-topped stretches of seagrass. Yizhuo isn't fooling anyone, but you've always liked stretching your legs out in the bed of her pick-up, even on the long drive to nowhere.)

Unsurprisingly, her friends quickly came to the same conclusion. Just one look at your local strawberry patch, with none of the glamour of the bloated tourist traps in the city, and they decided they'd rather spend the afternoon at the beach.

It was then, between the fragaria blooms, when you met Mingyu. He asked for your name, and the rest was history. Yizhuo and co. scattered like the grasping hands of an overripe dandelion and you learned that he was, one, the newly-graduated son of a pair of local farmers, and two, very, very attractive. Almost too much so, especially for a place like this.

Now he holds up a berry, a bright red murder between his fingers, and tells you to try it.

"You must be delusional if you think i'm taking food from a stranger," you laugh, perched on the fence bordering the field. It sprawls before you, melon stripes on the sunbaked ground.

"No, my name is Mingyu," he replies. "No idea who delusional is." His smile, all bright lip and snaggletooth, tears into the scarlet belly of a newly picked strawberry.

"We all know what happened to Persephone."

"Well, if the underworld was a strawberry patch, I wouldn't mind being stuck there for all of eternity."

"What're you picking all these for, anyway?" you ask, watching Mingyu struggle with his too-big straw hat between the vines. His woven basket bleeds over with little berries.

"Jam. I make it on the very first day of every summer."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who trespassed on my farm. You're cute, but I won't let you off easy."

He laughs at how you balk, clearly red-handed. You're not sure how to tell him you don't think you were supposed to be here either. You don't do things like sit in the back of trucks, trespass, or talk to pretty farmer boys who take a fancy to you, but it's the summer before you graduate and you're not even sure how long you'll have to continue making bad decisions.

"Are you gonna take my first-born now?" you joke instead. The daylight runs down the rim of Mingyu's hat, trickles down his brow, and you wish you could pour the image of him into a jar and keep it forever.

"No, but I will invite you in for some fresh jam on toast. I baked a loaf this morning." and when you say nothing, he continues. "The strawberries are only good once a year. It's the best you'll ever have. Promise."

It's a whine and a half, and somehow you convince yourself this will be the last bad decision you'll make. You've been here long enough to know that good things don't come twice in Seogwipo, and he is unlikely to be an exception.

Yizhuo blows up your phone, you tie the gingham apron around Mingyu's tiny waist, and the basket turns to blood in the saucepan.

Mingyu is right. Love comes to you in that kitchen, high and red like the sun, and the jam never tastes as good as it does that summer.

ii. watermelon (hollowed out, like a magic trick)

"A good watermelon sounds like a heartbeat."

You watch Mingyu heave the fruit, small and striped, out of his grocery bag. It joins the array of egg sandwiches and banana milks you picked up from the store together earlier. (There should have been chocolate Pepero too, but you split the box on the walk).

You're on a picnic, sprawled out on the outcropping overlooking the water. The path up is basically right behind your house, but you had never cared to visit. It had always been the local makeout spot, a schlocky teen crawl for those with nothing better to do, and yet, with Mingyu stretched out beside you, it seems newer. More exciting.

You're still just friends, or at least that's what you told Yizhuo. But ever since you sat on Mingyu's kitchen counter and ate from his jam-covered spatula, you don't think you've gone a week without seeing him. It's been almost two months, which seems so long and yet not long enough—he makes it easy to be greedy.

"See?" He thumps the watermelon with the heel of his palm. "Try it."

You already went through this entire charade at the grocery store, right in front of all the local aunties, but you indulge him. There's little point to triple checking if it's still ripe, but you think he just likes hitting it.

"It sounds good," you say. "But how are we even gonna eat it? We don't have a knife."

"Watch this." Mingyu procures a coin from his pocket. "You didn't learn this in elementary school? I feel like everyone was doing it."

"Here?" you ask, incredulous.

"Yeah, here. I grew up here too, you know."

He holds the edge of the coin to the skin and slams his palm into it once more, so that it lodges itself into the rind, and begins dragging it around the fruit. You start to wonder if he bought the watermelon just to show you a party trick—not that you mind, though. The strain of his biceps peeks through his rolled up white tee, and you remember why he was able to stop you with just one look back when you first met.

"No way." The watermelon is so ripe, it bleeds around the incision. "I feel like I know everyone here. And I definitely would have remembered you."

"I was probably, like, two grades above you," he replies. "And my parents shipped me off to live with my cousins after elementary school. They said I should get out of Seogwipo and experience the real world."

"Good call. There's nothing here." You watch Mingyu spin the melon over to cut through the other side. The coin catches the sunlight, and it looks like gold. "I wish I left for university. The one here is so small."

"Really?" He pauses to show you his handiwork. The two melon halves roll over on their backs, their cut edge cruel and jagged. "Cool, huh?"

"Impressive," you say. "Honestly. I really didn't think that would work."

"I didn't either when I first saw someone do it. But I’ll try anything once," he replies, ripping open the packaging of the plastic spoon from the bag. "I can't believe you don't like it here."

"You do?"

"Yeah. A lot." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, and you watch the watermelon juice pool around his lips. "I missed home. The trees and the tall grass and the ocean. All the fruits. Everything. I learned to ride a bike, right down there by the water."

"Hm." He passes you the spoon. You don't want to hog it, so you carve out a piece bigger than you need. "Are you gonna work at the farm?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet," he says. "I think I want to be here, though. Maybe do something with food, but I want to be home."

"That's funny, because I think I’ve always wanted to live a different life. Or at least one somewhere else."

"You want to go to law school, right?"

"Yeah." Mingyu is right. The watermelon is all sugar, and you would almost feel guilty for eating it if it wasn't technically good for you. "I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. It's something about the people watching, I think."

"That’s really cool," Mingyu says, mouth full but no less sincere. It's then that you notice your shoulders are almost touching, and your heart crawls back up to your mouth. "You know what you want. I admire that."

He makes it sound like a compliment, but you're sure it's a curse.

You think of your parents. There's a permanent wrinkle ironed into their foreheads, the paper crease of expectations and high standards. It's not that they didn't care, but their kind of care was a humbled sort, made heavy by a hard life. It didn't help that your big sister Seohyun went straight from Yonsei to work a big tech job in San Francisco and never once looked back.

But you can't blame any of them—wanting has always been a hereditary failing. Sometimes Yizhuo will catch you frowning at nothing, and then you remember that life isn't a performance and every day ends at the same time no matter how hard you work. But you don't know how to tell her that the only thing you can do sometimes is want, because otherwise you wouldn't really have much at all.

It seems like the exact opposite of how Mingyu lives—everything about him seems to pass like the seasons. Maybe that's why you can't seem to get enough of each other.

"Thank you. Really." You dig the spoon into your half of the melon. There isn't much left. "You're way too nice to me."

"It’s not hard to be," he laughs. "Maybe you're just too hard on yourself."

You're losing track of the distance between the two of you. You can almost feel the heat playing off his skin.

"Maybe."

It's then, under the veil of summer, where you meet Mingyu's gaze and, finally, things seem close to simple.

All you know are his eyes, heavy with sun, and then the slow, slow move of his lips against yours. He tastes like August, long and sweet, and for once you know what it's like to not only want, but to have, and to have again.

The ocean sings on the horizon, and the watermelon bellies weep.

iii. adzuki beans (or, the blood of a headless taiyaki)

Mingyu eats taiyaki headfirst because he says it hurts less.

"That makes no sense," you tell him, your pinkies linked. You never really liked holding hands, but yours fits so perfectly in Mingyu's and there's some girlish, childlike shine to it when you watch his finger search for yours after just a moment separated.

"What do you mean."

He breaks your gaze to eye a red bean taiyaki, like an unwilling predator sizing up their prey. It's the lamest, most embarrassing iteration of National Geographic you've ever seen, and yet you cannot find any fiber within yourself not deeply in love with the lion.

Fall is a forgiving place for your relationship to settle. You're now a senior at university and he's started his gap year. Gap implies he's in the middle of something, but in true Mingyu fashion, he leaves it up to fate, or chance, or something not nearly as kind (whim).

"Taiyaki isn't alive. And why would you want to pretend it is? Eating gummy bears would become an extinction event."

"It kind of is." He holds out the tail end of the taiyaki, the pastry almost explicitly flayed open, in front of you to eat. "Why does the Haribo bear have a face? Why do the gummy bears live in a gummy forest?"

"Great, so now I can’t even enjoy gummy bears without feeling like a serial killer?"

You dig your pointer into his shoulders, broad from all the time he spends on the farm. To think that his hands, big and weathered, were made to pick berries (and now wrap around your pinky finger) is bruising, if not ridiculously funny.

"It's a crime of passion. Gummy passion. Prosecute that."

He kisses your cheek and your heart almost squeezes into two.

The terrible thing about being with Mingyu is how seemingly endless his affection is. Now he's feeding you in public and buying the two of you matching socks (cat and dog, to be exact), although you'll admit it's a little charming, even if the neighbors do gossip.

He's sweet, too sweet, and his kisses stick to the back of your throat.

But you can't be fooled. There's an unsaid violence to the way Mingyu loves. (The meticulous spiral of the peel he carves when you ask for him to cut you an apple. The grind, decisive and cruel, of a knife against a cutting board. A pair of canines against your neck, your jaw.)

Even now, he bites the head off another unwitting taiyaki before stuffing it back in the bag.

"We're still splitsing, right?" he says, with perhaps 1% of his mouth available for speaking and the other 99% murder machine.

Splits, he always says before you share food. You never had the heart to tell him that it's in the same family as mines or sharesies or takebacks—silly childhood relics, ones that no one uses anymore because they don't mean anything.

This time, you don't hear him because you're thinking about the law school fair you went to before Mingyu picked you up. The future is so close, it scares you. A year from now, what ground would you be standing on? Would it smell like this—the peat, the thread-spool fields, the balm of the ocean? Would you still have Mingyu's finger wrapped round yours?

"Have you decided if you're staying at the farm?" you ask.

"Not really." He uses the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. "If my sister decides to take over, I’m actually kinda thinking of going to pastry school instead of getting a masters."

Mingyu had been toying with the idea for some time after you had talked about it on the outlook. It started off as a joke (September; a galette), then a what if (October; green tea mochi), and now it sits at a kinda.

"Kinda?"

The word gathers speed in the pachinko machine of your mind. You never liked being a kinda person. For Mingyu, it seems like a luxury of a word, but for you, it's really just another thing to hide behind. Kinda talented, kinda ambitious, kinda just there. You're always one foot in, one foot out of something better.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"I dunno. What if we both end up leaving?"

"Maybe. You still want to, right?"

You would be lying if you said you didn't—it's what you always wanted. Seogwipo has been a sun-rot, too-small crutch for you, but you would also be lying if you said you weren't terrified that you'd eventually come back, limping like some doomed Icarus, unable to truly make it in the real world.

Then you think of the pockmarked farmland beside your home, lacy with the fall harvest. Even now, you can trace the endless blue of the coastline all the way there, cut through all the maybes and just let the sound of the ocean fold you into sleep like you were a child again. You wonder if Seohyun, all the way on the other side of the world, ever misses it.

"I’m not sure," you say, because, as much as you don't like it, it's the only answer you have.

"It's ok. You'll figure it out. You always do." He squeezes your cheeks together between his thumb and index, laughing at how they pillow out underneath his fingers. "Screw pastry school. I could come with you. Who else would keep you fed?"

Mingyu's complete and unfounded belief in you makes you feel something close to betrayal. How could he say any of that? With what proof? Only someone like Mingyu would be able to hold the wrinkled fruit of your unremarkable life between his palms and see something better than that. Maybe it's because he grew up on a farm. Either that, or he already cares for you too much, too painfully.

Secrets are easy to keep when they look like yours. At least here, in the pit of your stomach, you can keep count, take attendance of them, all your tittering, small anxieties. Some days it feels like your ribs are pressing out, but it's better than cutting everything loose to spill out over what little you do have control over.

You can handle a little pressure. You have to.

What concerns you is the hand Mingyu's got across your chest. With one look, he just might gut you. A twist of the heart-knife, and all those carefully wound insides carved out in an instant—maybe he'd pity you, but worse than that, he'd likely be disappointed.

For you, expectation has always stood taller than shame, and the idea that he sees something past you makes you want to run away.

"I could be a house husband," he says as easily as ever. "You'll be off saving the world, arguing with whoever, and I'll be there to run you a bath afterwards."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you reply, binding up the strange, hollow feeling in your stomach with a laugh.

There's a scared little girl hiding inside you, and whether Mingyu sees her or not hurts the same. A spade is a spade. You can only pretend so long.

You look at the taiyaki floating in their wax paper bag, blinded and wrought open by the same grin that now peels you down, and you're not hungry anymore.

iv. winter pears (rotten, outside your parents' house)

Mingyu's family loves Christmas.

You think it's because of the pear trees they have in the front yard. They stand bravely before the house, all emerald ash and wisdom in the December freeze. Run your palms over the knobs and it's like you can see into a sleepy visage of simpler days past. (Below its heart, carved: 1982, the year the farm was bought. Along the tangle of the roots: gyu waz here, in an unsure, childish scrawl.)  

Winter comes to the countryside crawling on its hands and knees. On days it doesn't snow, there's a mist, boggy and clingy. You've come to realize the cold is more of a threat than a promise, and so the pear trees still bear fruit; the silvery branches hang heavy, faithful.

The first day of December, Mingyu's parents had tasked the two of you with decorating the farmhouse, a duty you took very seriously. You wrapped Mingyu up in string lights and watched him blink in and out like your own personal firefly.

It wasn't until you watched the rafters, the barn doors, the joyous vault of the ceiling all glow, like a spectacular firework, that you finally started to understand why Mingyu was so into the holidays.

It was in the yellow blush of the string lights that you had your first pear from the tree, which Mingyu insisted was a holiday tradition. We make poached pears, he said, mid-bite. You simmer the pear in syrup until it gets so soft, you can cut into it with a fork. Just like butter.

That same night, he kissed you, mouth hot and trembling and tasting of honey, and pressed you against the bark so hard, you could feel the grit of its veins against your skin.

You think December became your favorite month, and pears your favorite fruit.

So much so, that for the entire month, you try to put away your worries about law school applications to celebrate with Mingyu and his family.

You learn his mom makes the best hot chocolate (a cinnamon stick and a dogged devotion to the whisk), and that Mingyu has no clue on God's green earth how to ice skate. (He careens right into your chest the first time. You spend the next hour with him attached to you like a backpack—he manages to find the most impractical ways to do anything, which you somehow admire the most). On Sundays, Yizhuo ditches her Seoul friends and instead accompanies you to the mall two towns over, where she watches you compare different ties and watches and collagen creams as you decide on gifts for his family. (Lilac is so last year, she'd say, stirring the straw of a watered-down milk tea.)

It's not until the weekend before Christmas when you realize just how serious things have gotten. Your feet understand the meander of the dirt path to the farmhouse, your bones the scent of the yellow-skinned apple, the faded wildflowers. Your palms crave the plush of the rug they have in front of the fireplace. Hell, you can't even eat soondubu without thinking of the kind Mingyu's dad makes, with extra anchovies and green onion.

You don't think about what this means. There are ten days left in December and love poured from a full cup never seems to run out.

"Please let me carry some of those," Mingyu wheedles. "Oh my god. I'm like the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, you are not." you make your way up to his doorstep, taking care to one-two step over the stray roots of one of the pear trees. It's second nature to you by now. "The moment I hand you a box, you are gonna start trying to figure out what it is."

He harumphs and plucks the big one off the top anyway, the one he knows you can't reach. "I didn't even know you were getting us gifts. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Who shows up to a holiday dinner emptyhanded?" You stop at the front door. "And stop shaking it," you laugh, using the tip of your boot to nudge his shin.

"Okay. Okay," he says, saccharine, adoring, before grabbing the doorknob. "Ready? Are you nervous? You shouldn't be nervous, right? It's not fancy or anything, if you were worried about that."

And that's the thing that wedges itself between your ribs. Mingyu and his whole family are like this. They love and worry and love again; it presses deep into you, fills you, and overflows.

So here you are, standing in your nicest dress and balancing a stack of gifts you hope will amount to something, never enough but something, to repay the people who you feel have loved you more than you deserve. It's all you really have. You do your best, and yet you know when that door opens, it'll all be washed away in a high-tide flurry of hugs and laughter and the familiar press of Bobpul's wet nose against your leg. They're just those kinds of people—they would be just as happy if you didn't bring anything at all, and somehow that makes you feel even more guilty.

"No, no," you wave him off. "I’m fine. Excited."

When Mingyu opens the door, everything goes just as you expected. His sister takes your coat, your gifts are whisked away to the tree (Aji has already figured out which one is his), and his parents descend upon you in a choking swell of warmth and charity.

We baked some fresh bread for your parents (—Thank you so much, but you really shouldn't have.). You look so beautiful in that color (—No, no, you flatter me too much.). Mingyu better be taking good care of you (—He is. He really, really is.).

The kitchen is gauzy with cinnamon, anise. They must be making their famous poached pears, which Mingyu remarks on, just like clockwork.

Dinner passes the same way. It bubbles over with affection, and you feel swallowed by an impossible yearning. This—a full table and a hand to hold underneath it—did you deserve this? And could you keep it?

For an instant, you picture yourself, years later, at this same seat. Mingyu would be fussing over the rice cakes, his apron still gingham because it reminds him of the day you two met. His parents, grayer but no less happy, bickering over the shade of tinsel on the tree. And the dogs, coiled at your feet like they are now. The vision laps at your bones like you're a raft in a storm.

You're pulled back into the moment when Mingyu squeezes your hand, grounding and insistent. "Mom asked how school was going. I told her I think you're basically the smartest person I know, and I’m pretty sure you're getting into whatever law school you want."

Mingyu's parents laugh, and they cut through their pears.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Um."

Clink. Knife meets flesh, meets porcelain. Your cheeks are hot. You wanted to talk about anything other than yourself tonight. Clink.

"The top programs are a reach, but it'd be nice." clink. "I just want to get in somewhere."

"They’re all so far away," Mingyu's mom remarks. "So grown up. Any school will be lucky to have you. You'll get into all of them."

Clink.

"Or maybe you can stay here." You watch the prongs of Mingyu's father's fork disappear into the pear. "Keep us old folk company."

"No, no, I think Mingyu should take notes and get off his lazy ass," his sister says, teasing. "Going back to the city will be good for him."

"So you can, what, burn down the kitchen again?" Mingyu grumbles, and the whole table seems to boil over with laughter.

"We’re kidding," his mom tells you. "No matter where you go, I’m sure you'll do great. We can even throw you a party at the end of the year. For graduating."

Clink. Clink.

There's a horrible uneasiness writhing around in your stomach. It's pear and syrup and clove and a blackness, an anxious, selfish one that sucks up all the generosity of the evening and turns it into shame.

Mingyu's mom is talking about throwing you a graduation party, something you didn't even think to do for yourself, and here you are, thinking about the shaking moment you open your rejection letters and the lonely path you'll draw on your way back home.

It's ok. They missed out, Mingyu would say, pouring you a consolation drink, and then it would be over. You'd go home and sit on your bed and the trifold piece of paper would go round and round your head like it was in a washing machine.

Your heart, an inventory of tasks and goals and tally marks. Things you've taken and things you've owed. It's a soft, boneless excuse. Be grateful. Give them that, at least.

Clink.

Dessert ends before you can tell his family not to get their hopes up. Mingyu's mom sends you off with your loaf of bread and a kiss on the cheek, and the moment is gone.

"Gyu," you call out on the steps in front of the house.

There are words at the seam of your lips. You want to tell him you're sorry for worrying so much. For making the whole dinner about you and then very possibly having nothing to show for it when it matters. For the heaviness in your chest. Your cowardice. But none of it comes out.

Instead you watch Mingyu pull at the leaves of a pear tree, watching the frost-filigree they get at the end of the season. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, as if he's on the hazy cover of a magazine. His eyes bend so wonderfully at the corners when he looks at you, and it breaks your heart.

"You had fun, right?" he asks. "My parents like you a lot, you know. I think they really do."

But that's the problem, you want to say. You all do, and I have no idea why.

Some of the pears are beginning to rot now. You watch one drop off the vine, and it caves to the pavement like it was made of nothing at all.

v. wild barley (grows like weeds)

In March, you play house.

Your parents leave on a two week trip to see relatives, and Mingyu takes it upon himself to make sure you survive.

It's a kind, blinding charade.

(7 am, breakfast. You usually don't even eat breakfast, but you wake up to doenjang and a smile, one that presses itself to yours until you're wearing it on the long walk to school.)

(4 pm, the stretch between lunch and dinner. You're muddling through another useless club meeting when Mingyu sends you a picture of him in your mom's apron, making kimchi. Kiss the chef, he texts you. You promise to, over and over and over.)

It's good until it isn't.

That isn't to say that it's Mingyu's fault. In fact, it's never really Mingyu's fault, and that's the worst thing about your relationship. Sometimes you wish he was worse just so there was someone else to blame.

(1 am, a fridge-cold glass of water and a hand on the column of your spine. Can't sleep? He asks. Just had a weird dream, you say.

It's a lie. You're a liar.

You miss your parents and the first wave of acceptance letters comes out in two days. You're not like him. Sleep has never been a cure for the exhaustion you're feeling, and you have no way of telling him that however warm the bed is won't fix that.)

It's on a Thursday afternoon when you open your mailbox and see the tiny, thin envelope that you've been expecting for the past week. You don't need to open it to know what it says, and yet you do it anyway.

The sun is white, a ghost in the spring sky. The ocean bleeds into the overcast, the curly barley stands tall around your feet, and you let the worst letter you've gotten in your life fall upon your shoulders, word by terrible word.

Then you close it, pinching the seam shut, and draw up your brave face. Nothing left to do but be brave. You're convinced you've used up all the sadness in your relationship—spend in pennies and the well still runs dry. Mingyu will cup your cheek and call you darling, pouring into your emptying basin, holey and broken.

You see him now through the kitchen window, Venus in his clamshell of a kitchen. Galbijjim day, he had said this morning. Now, he waves at you, glittery with recognition.

Your throat feels like crumpled paper.

Mingyu smiles at you, hazy through the glass. Your cheeks hurt and your mouth is paper mache, but you smile back anyway.

///

The letters come one after another.

You know what the envelopes hold and yet you keep opening them. The little folder you keep stashed in your bottom drawer gets fatter every passing day because you can't help but revisit your misery, almost as if you need to remind yourself it exists.

Mingyu is none the wiser. Today he decides he'll put off pastry school for one more year. "It doesn't feel like the right time," he says, rolling a log of burdock kimbap up. "You know what I mean?"

No, you don't. You never really do.

You do know, however, that it would feel really fucking bad that, come the end of the year, to have nothing. All your friends would be going somewhere—even Yizhuo opened her acceptance to an MFA program in Shanghai yesterday—and you would be here, still, feet firmly planted in the muddy Jeju dirt like they always had been.

"Hey, don't look so disappointed." he jokes. "Don't tell me you're already trying to get rid of me."

You're not, you really aren't. But part of you wonders if it's just a race to the bottom. If you got rid of him before he decided he wanted to get rid of you, maybe it would hurt a lot less. One less letter for the folder.

"Never. But imagine if you picked up a French accent at pastry school. Then I’d consider it. Maybe."

You watch his knife rock back and forth on the cutting board as he cuts the kimbap.

"Some for you. And more for me," he says, in what you can only describe as someone attempting to speak French when they've never heard it before. "Unless you want more, mon cherie."

He brings the plates to the table, his grin nothing short of dizzying.

"I’m irresistible, huh? Still wanna leave me now?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder than that, I think."

The words roll off your tongue, easily, traitorously.

You watch the kimbap disappear off of Mingyu's plate.

Going, going, gone.

///

Seogwipo is always dark at night, only kept alive by the glow of the moonlit sea.

You can't sleep. Again. And so you sit out on the steps in front of your house, letting the twilight wrap around you like a blanket.

You got your last letter back earlier today. You held your breath and tore it open like you would a birthday card with money in it.

Waitlisted.

It was surely better than a rejection, but some naive, child-eyed part of you thought that if you had just closed your eyes and hoped hard enough, things would work out the way you had planned. Tragically, it wasn't enough this time. You wanted and wanted and you thought maybe that would mean you'd come close to deserving it.

Your parents called today. After managing to sideline the issue of basically the rest of your entire life, they had finally cut through your sad little charade. No good news yet, huh?

No, but—

It was always like that with you. No, but it's not as bad as you think. No, but give me a chance. No, but I’m trying. I've been trying.

You wish things didn't come out of you so complicated. That you could be like Seohyun, who could go through school with her eyes closed and still graduate at the top of her class. Instead, you parade around your little failures, trying to convince people it all could mean something only if they squinted. See? It isn't so bad.

You think you're past the point of crying about it. Your stomach hurts, you're cold, and most of all, you just want to go back to bed. Plus, although Mingyu sleeps like a log, you think he's developed a sixth sense for whenever you get up too early.

Time to be brave, you've been telling yourself, although you don't know who you're pretending for anymore.

So you nudge the front door open—it's so old, it wails if you come at it with any more force—and, to your surprise, see the light above the kitchen sink turned on.

It's not very bright, but it's enough to make out Mingyu's broad silhouette, back turned to you as he makes a cup of tea. He's humming one of his made-up songs.

"Mingyu?"

"There you are," he says, turning around. "Just came out to check on you. And make you some tea."

The kettle whizzes. Your gut twists.

You still haven't said anything to Mingyu. To manage your own disappointment was one thing—you don't think you could handle another person's. And yet when he stands there, Pororo mug between his huge hands, you feel as if you are holding a knife, big and guilty and bloody.

"I-I'm fine, Gyu. Honest." you watch his expression flicker, unreadable in the persimmon lamplight. "Sorry you had to come out. It's chilly out here."

"You know, you can tell me what's going on. I won't judge."

No, no, no. This is the last conversation you wanted to have, with the last person you wanted to have it with.

You feel feverish. You think your hands are shaking.

"Mingyu, I swear—"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. I know we can."

That almost makes you want to laugh if you didn't want to cry so bad. Of fucking course he would say that. Mingyu, who treats life like it's the watermelon trick he showed you on the outlook, wants to put a bandaid on this whole thing, as if that could come close to fixing it.

He'd tell you to curl up on the couch with a bad movie while he orders takeout. Kiss you on the top of the head. It's ok, baby. Just another bad day for the person who has the worst luck in the world. Another lump of problems for him to try and make better. If he isn't sick of you now, he sure would be soon enough.

"It’s okay," you say, steeling your voice. "It really isn't a big deal. Let's just go back to sleep."

You try to walk away, but the hardness in Mingyu's eyes roots you down to the tile.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing me away," he swallows. "Like you always do. I know something's going on."

"I’m not, i just—"

"You just what? You can't help it?"

"No, I—"

"Because you like to know that you can? That you can say whatever and then watch me come back?" A fragmented, heavy silence thrums between you. He's looking at you like he's daring you to say something, anything. His gaze is black. "What am I good for if you can't tell me anything?"

There's that familiar, stinging pressure behind your eyes. You think you're crying, but you're not sure. Maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"Fine," you bite. Your blood feels like hot metal. "You really wanna know? I didn't get into law school. There. Happy now?"

Mingyu looks stung.

"W-why didn't you tell me?"

Because I thought you would stop loving me. I thought you would have finally had enough.

"Because it's not all about you, Mingyu."

The words, selfish and damning, burn your tongue. Mingyu is right. This is what you always do. You fuck up and then make everyone else hurt for it.

"I'm sorry," Mingyu says. His voice doesn't sound like his. Instead, the words seem to hang in the air, trembling and holding their breath, waiting for an apology you can't give yet. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's ok." You swallow hard, and it hurts. "Let's just go back to bed."

It's getting colder and colder. You think there's a little hole in your sock, right above the cat's whiskers.

Mingyu doesn't reach for you as he passes to get to the hallway. Maybe he doesn't know how to anymore.

The Pororo cup is left abandoned on the counter. You walk over and read the label on the tea bag—barley, because you have class tomorrow morning.

You pick it up, let the ceramic buzz between your hands with whatever warmth it has left, and hold it to your lips.

It's cold now, but all you can think to do is drink it. Erase all the evidence that tonight ever happened, and maybe it'll be nothing more than a bad dream in the morning.

There's honey at the bottom of the cup. It sears the back of your throat, but you drink until there's nothing left.

vi. the peach blossoms (without fail, bloom every August. I miss you.)

You broke up the next day.

Even now, you remember what happened. You had woken up early that morning to make your own breakfast because you couldn't allow Mingyu to give you any more of himself. Your hands could only hold, shatter, so much.

"Mingyu, I think we should...." You looked at the zigzags of jam on your toast, angry and uneven. "I think we should stop seeing each other. For now," you had added, as if that made anything better at all.

Somehow that seemed more merciful at the time. Really, you think it just showed your cowardice. If you were going to break his heart, you might as well have gone all the way the first time.

Maybe it was a good thing that Mingyu saw right through you. He always did.

"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna give up on us?"

"No, I just...need some time."

"How long?" he asked. "Be honest with me. Because you know I’ll wait."

"I don't know." You couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes reached and reached over that kitchen table and you denied him even that.

"Don't you always know?" he asked, pitifully, desperately. "Don't you want this to work?"

And you did. In fact, you don't think you had ever wanted anything more, and it was that that scared you. You had already lost law school—you couldn't let the only other thing in your life let you go. So you pulled the trigger first.

"We should just end things. I'm sorry. I can't give you what you need."

He packed his bag within the hour, and you think everything, from then on, froze inside you. You didn't move from your seat until your parents came home from the airport later that day and asked why there were two plates of toast still on the table.

You think you knew, someplace, inevitably, this would happen. You, who only knew hunger, had reached deep inside Mingyu and rooted out a love you didn't think you were worthy of having. And yet you still ate from the vine, bite after guilty bite, until you couldn't take any more. The only time he asked you for anything at all, you couldn't give it to him—such was the irony of your relationship.

Maybe you were doomed the moment the first strawberry hit your tongue, just like you had said, all that time ago.

About a month later, you got another letter in the mail. Chungnam National University Law School, it read. This one was fat, in one of those brown envelopes lined with bubble wrap. Somehow, miraculously, that position on the waitlist had turned into an acceptance. You held the package to your chest and cried, loud and with abandon, as if taking a deep breath after almost drowning.

Ironically, the first person you wanted to tell was Mingyu. But the good news you needed to save your relationship came too little, too late. Perhaps that meant it had no legs to stand on in the first place, but that didn't stop you from missing it. Instead, you told Yizhuo, and she drove you to Jeju City and treated you to dinner. "You should just call him," she had said. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He'd probably pick up on the first ring."

The city is swathed in August's crimson summer—peach season. The narrow streets are lined with peach trees, the fruits glowing like fat drops of sunlight. All you do these days is plan for your eventual move to Daejeon and the start of a life that seems newer and shinier than your own. But surrounded by the cicada song, the velvet treeline, the rain-soaked asphalt, somehow you think you're going to miss Seogwipo more than you think.

(Fickle, fickle heart. You always needed things to be taken away to really be able to appreciate them. Somehow, all that wanting had boiled down to something more satisfying, more filling.)

You wonder how Mingyu is. Now that you think about it, he seems just as much a part of Seogwipo as the farm he lives on. It was only last summer when you had first met him in the field, set on fire by the strawberry harvest. You think about him now, peddling around that ridiculous wicker basket to make jam. Maybe talking to another pretty girl, someone as naive, cruel as you had been.

Not long ago, you considered calling him to apologize, but that'd just be another thing to be selfish about. A little time and some warm weather, and I’m calling to finally wash my hands of you. That's what it would sound like, no matter what you said. Still, it didn't stop you from thinking of him, every flower, every season.

"You know, I always wanted to grow peach trees. But I think we've always been a pear kind of family."

Mingyu. If a voice could cut through air, it'd be his.

You whip around, half-believing you're hearing things. Certainly that would be easier, but you're learning that there are some things you can't run from.

And like a picture, Mingyu stands tall, golden, framed by the peach blossoms. Not a thing about him has changed. Not even the way he looks at you.

"Mingyu," you breathe. Unfortunately, none of the times you replayed your last conversation with him help you come up with something to say, because in none of them did you anticipate him coming back. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly."

"No way," you reply, scrambling. "Crazy, because I live here too."

You both laugh nervously, a silly, bubbly thing, but you feel like you're going to throw up. It's only now that you realize you're kind of on the walk to his place. Seogwipo has never had places to hide.

"I...um." You try and disentangle the guilt from the nostalgia from the scent of the peaches and the warmth on his face. They all look the same. You missed him. "I got into law school. In Daejeon."

"I heard," he says. "Not surprised at all. I always knew you would."

"Thank you. I mean it." The cicadas buzz around you, as if they know they have an important silence to fill. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Actually, I decided to apply to culinary school. It finally felt right, you know? I'm leaving at the end of the summer, but it's just in Jeju City. I couldn't leave the island."

"Thank goodness. I don't know if you could tell, but I kind of always hoped you would. I don't think I’ve ever eaten better food." Your voice wobbles, but it gets there. "You'll do amazing."

Then time stretches and forces you to recognize, reckon with, the moment you're in. You wonder if he feels the same way you do—bruised, overripe. If there's still a space in his heart for you.

Deep breath. Life only gives you so many chances.

"Mingyu, I’m sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't make us work. You deserved better." Saying it feels like peeling the skin of your heart back. There's still a palpable distance between the two of you—you think that had always been there—but it feels more comfortable in a way it never did before.

"Don’t apologize," he says, easily, as he always does. Everything seems to flow off him like water, and you think that's the part of him you loved the most because it was the one thing you couldn't touch. "We loved each other. I think that much was true."

A jasmine breeze curls through the trees, sending the blossoms fluttering around you like ink in water. The very first time you met Mingyu, you thought the image of him, haloed with the sunset, was the one you wanted to keep forever. And yet, somehow, you don't think you'll ever forget the way he looks right now.

"Will you ever come back to Seogwipo?" you ask.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing—you were always the one who wanted to get out of here." He grins, ear to ear. "Of course I'm coming back. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

The sea, the clay dirt, Mingyu. Even yourself, clumsy and care-worn. You think, somewhere along the line, you forgot how to love. But you're learning—one step at a time.

"Friends," you say. "Let's be friends. If you'll let me."

"Thought you would never ask. Gladly. Always." The space between you seizes, like it's holding in a breath. Maybe one day, you'll think of closing it once more, but you like where you stand now. You can admire him better from a distance, without your fingerprints all over him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, something he does before he gets ready to leave. But before he does—"I'll see you soon, okay? You better come back. Promise me."

For the first time, you see the honesty in his eyes and you really, truly believe him.

"Promise."

The Seogwipo sun is high and red in the sky when you wave Mingyu goodbye. It feels like you're coming to an end of a long summer, but you're not afraid. You watch the wind dance through the peach blossoms, their branches never searching, never wanting, and you finally feel as if you've arrived home.

[llitchilitchi]

tonight has been such a great show of how the fans see c!Dream. the language surrounding him is dehumanizing, in the story, he is the book, he is kept in a vault, he is a monster - c!Q and c!Sam are seconds from calling him it, and the fandom reflects so many of these views. he is not a person with feelings, he is a monster, a predator stalking its prey, an obssessed beast. not human, never human with his very own motivations and goals and dreams who plans for something more. he never wans things for a reason that could not be seen as selfish desire, he is evil personified.

but the moment the language around him, by others in the story, the people who hold power over him reflect the lack of humanity that he should be granted, suddenly it is impossible to strip him of this human side. no, he cannot be in a vault, vault is for objects (like the revive book that everyone sees him as).

he is granted only as much humanity as people think he deserves to be punished further

[vaguely-concerned]

the strength it must have taken for illario to not immediately go full 'lmao since when have you even had a kiss hello lucanis' sibling violence mode during the café talk. inspirational. rook and lucanis really were doing all that right in front of his salad huh

[aroaceleovaldez]

The himbo, malewife, goofball -fication of percy jackson is such a crime by both the fans and riordan. It has made Mr not like percabeth as a couple because in all posts and in later books annabeth is such a girlboss, while Percy's dumb and can't fight his way out of a paperbag without her. All the posts are about how annabeth will be an architect and percy would love to be a trophy husband.

Even the humor in the books went from Percy's sharp wit and snark to 'my pancakes can't drown because I'm a son of poseidon.'

And now this recommendation letter bullshit.

Honestly now I'd wish percy just separated from annabeth (but they remain best friends.) He stays home with his family, becomes a camp counselor, helps young demigods, holds God's accountable and eventually becomes a social activist. (I also dislike him doing something marine biology related. It's clear he hates academics but he always wants to help people. Him helping demigods and mortals is such a wholesome profession for him.)

I fully agree with the first half of this, though I slightly disagree with part of the latter.

The later-series and fanon mischaracterization of Percy is at least a solid 50% ableism minimum, full stop. He's being warped into a very stereotyped ADHD character and the exact reason why he's being characterized as "dumb" is because of ableism. Percy is a very intelligent character! That's exactly why he's so in sync with Annabeth and they're such a strong duo! It's just generally Annabeth is more book/academically smart.

I disagree with where you say he hates academics - because that's one of the common misconceptions about his character. Percy doesn't hate learning or academic subjects! He's not even bad at them! We know explicitly that when he is in an accommodating environment he is interested in learning and gets significantly better grades! Percy only dislikes school because it is generally an environment that systematically he struggles with. It's literally just he has a learning disability (two, actually)! That's it! When his learning disability is accommodated for he does well! It's almost like that's what accommodations are all about! We know this from the first series! It's discussed pretty in-depth! Percy isn't a dumb character and he doesn't hate learning, he's just been let down by school systems so much that he's inherently distrustful of them. If they actually accommodate him though then he does just fine!

And that's exactly what CHB was all about and why New Rome University was supposed to be such a big thing for him! CHB is a learning environment geared for demigods. NRU is a demigod college. Both inherently imply an environment meant to cater to and accommodate students with ADHD and dyslexia! They are both systematically structured to be able to accommodate him! Heck, CHB and CJ even both address in the wider themes of the series a metaphor about how ADHD and dyslexia are commonly seen as childhood disabilities, and how it can be more difficult to find accommodations into adulthood because of that attitude but those disabilities don't just go away - that's why CHB is a summer camp but they talk about how demigods outside of CHB don't often fare well. The metaphor there is those who are not getting help or accommodations are struggling. Because that's how that works! This is a fully intentional metaphor from the first series! CHB is never framed as being perfect for demigods, because one of the entire central conflicts of the series is Percy and Luke going back and forth about this flawed system meant to help and support them but still letting people fall through the cracks. The "claim your kids by 13" thing is a metaphor about how acknowledging a child's disabilities (and possibly getting a diagnosis) earlier/as early as possible means they will have more time to learn and build up resources and support for themselves to be able to use later in life. One of CHB's major flaws is that it can accommodate demigods to a certain point, but it can only do so much before those demigods have to leave (the metaphor being accommodating school systems when those disabled students do not have any other forms of accommodations in their lives.)

And that's why Camp Jupiter was framed as being so revolutionary for Percy because it had an environment acknowledging that this is not just a childhood disability, adults with ADHD/dyslexia exist too and still need and deserve accommodations, AND is a place where those accommodations are available. That's why Camp Jupiter and NRU are treated as such special and important things to Percy, because it's essentially Percy being shown this type of thing can and does exist and it is available to him. It is an option he never thought was possible. Percy never thought he'd be able to go to college because he would not be able to go through school without accommodations, but NRU proves otherwise.

The part that's absolutely stupid is Rick then proceeded to retcon NRU so that apparently it's not a full college and Percy still has to take classes at normal mortal college which DEFEATS THE ENTIRE PURPOSE OF NRU EXISTING. Rick has fully retconned that demigods struggle past the ages of 16-18 when they're on their own (see above elaborated metaphors) and in doing so we have fully killed all symbolism in literally all of that. It's so stupid. And by having the plot of the CoTG trilogy entirely be that Percy is not actually allowed access to NRU in the first place because he is a son of Poseidon and has to do extra to even be accepted is stupid!

All that to say, I agree the marine biology feels like a huge cop-out and a disservice to his character by reducing him to just a son of Poseidon. The literal only reason why it's the default option people take for him is because oh, fish thing, fish guy. But I feel like everyone ignores the really obvious answer for what Percy would want to do which is - writing. Both his parents are writers/authors and he clearly admires that about them. Percy likes telling stories! He canonically is already a published author in-universe! That's what the books ARE in-universe! The first series fully exists in their universe and Percy is the author! This is explicit canonical information! Percy canonically has help physically writing it down (accommodations) but he is still the credited author! Percy is a writer! Already! Canonically! Why are we making him a marine biologist he already has a profession that ties into his character significantly more. Like you said, Percy likes helping people. That's what the books in-universe are supposed to be for! It's point blank at the beginning of the series! Book one! The thing everybody quotes all the time! The books exist because it is Percy trying to give advice to other demigods who don't know what's going on yet! It's Percy's writing down his experiences to help new demigods understand and contextualize their experiences so they can understand themselves better and figure out what's going on - WHICH IN ITSELF IS ALSO A METAPHOR ABOUT ADHD/DYSLEXIA! Because the core of the series has and always will be built around ADHD/dyslexia! Percy as a protagonist EXPLICITLY was created so that ADHD/dyslexic kids could see themselves as a hero!

Sorry that all was a very tangential rant but my point being: Absolutely. Percy in newer stuff in the franchise and in fanon is horrifically mischaracterized in ways that are functionally either fully ableist (shoutout TSATS for just outright claiming Percy is intentionally lazy and skips school out of disinterest, which is like the number one ableist attitude towards kids with learning disabilities) or a complete erasure of Percy's disabilities. Also I think he should be a writing major not a marine biologist.

[dykedvonte]

wanted to say I appreciate your nuanced takes on MW and especially Curly. i don't get the claim that the fandom is full of Curly apologists when majority (esp yt and tiktok) say he's worse than Jimmy. Yes there's commentary about bro culture defending people, he def messed up in trying to placate Jimmy (tbh "we'll fix this" sounded more like trying to keep someone prone to outbursts like Jim calm and not hurt Anya/himself) but I don't think he did nothing to help Anya, since she continued to confide in him and he had less than a week to resolve it before the crash (I also don't get everyone saying he knew for ages when it seems like Anya told him that same week). I get Jimmy's a pos but saying stuff like Curly should've known he'd crash the ship or that Jim had a criminal record he ignored, reducing them to obviously horrible villain and willfully ignorant sidekick feels like a disservice to the game. If your best friend turned out to be horrible, what would you do in a confined space in the span of a few days to respond? I'd say some of the horror comes from trying to do good but ultimately failing, Curly's state after the crash is meant to be tragic horror not revenge/punishment

Thank you and this is what I want to get across.

A lot of information we have to supplement when it comes to how long things have been happening on this current ship. I think people try to add on to the horror and negligence by making things more obvious so it can feel like it was easier to avoid when, true to life, its not. Jimmy clearly didn't deserve or appreciate what Curly did for him in getting him the job, but do you think if Jimmy was that big of a menace on Earth he would've given him a position where he could have that level of power over people's lives? There's something in the fact he specifically chose to pick a position so close to himself where he could watch Jimmy.

I hate the bro code argument because that is a whole can of worms people really don't get. That sort of mentality is born from the general respect and preference of male matter over female ones. Curly is clearly not that guy, he is absent minded about the issue and inadvertently dismissive but he clearly believes Anya, he just can't understand what she's going through. It's an onslaught of information that no one really reacts right to. Additonally, the entire discussion of her assualt plays to heavy into the idea that there is fault outside of the perpertratior when it comes to SA. It's too close if she only did this or if Curly had protected her better but the fact of the matter is Jimmy did what he did. He did it before any of the conversations with Anya about it and it's why her behavior seemed to change so drastically in those last two days.

He has other conflicting thought and while his role as a Captain should've taken over, people act like it's not a very human thing to have such a toxic presence cloud your judgement. It is never easy to separate friend from coworker once that connection is formed, you want to help them, especially if they were friend first and for a long while like in this case. It's not right, but people act like it would be easy when the game clearly points out that no choice is easy to make, especially when you have to make it for more than one person. You have the weigh the consequences, look at all the options and make a plan. People can headcanon and decide how long things where happening, but if we look at what we were presented through the characters eyes, the only person given time to do that was Jimmy.

He waited two months after the crash to appoint himself Captain. Every time a problem was brought up he immediately took action and refused to sit on it and find a better solution. I think it's important to look at the warped way Jimmy takes initiative where Curly didn't as it works as a good contrast of why you don't just run in to "fix" things. The quickest and easiest option may not be the safest or most beneficial. I think some thoughts on the game suffer from the black and white thinking the game doesn't operate on along with us being voyeurs. We see what exactly led to what but the characters don't. They don't have the hindsight and foresight we do and even ours is scrambled by the non-linear story telling.

Like it's hard to talk abuou those grey zones without sounding like an apologist because you're explaining why taking responsibility isn't easy. It's not and it's weird to act like it would be in a scenerio that led up to the events of the game knowing what we know. We see all these characters in such isolated moments with various things before, in between, after and even during we aren't privy too. The idea that Jimmy is worse than Curly heavily banks on the words Jimmy was saying to Jimmy before he crashed the ship. That whatever happened on the ship was his responsibility to bare, which is true due to his position. But, are they not still not responsible for taking the actions Curly then must bare?

Like i feel like people think that these are situation that become easier with age or when you are in a postion of authority and they aren't. You don't lose your biases or gain some sudden knowledge that makes it easier. It just becomes more tiring as you keep dealing with it. I would be first in line to say Curly fucked up and should've done more but the idea he knew how bad it could get or he really saw the worst in the people around him and ignored it pretty much ignores a huge aspect of his character and the game.

[wickmitz]

— THE ELECTRIC-FEVER REMEDY.

[puppppppppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[silusvesuius]

n*loth not being able to bag anyone over the (human term) age of 25-30 at most is the only logical and real conclusion to me because it can be just explained away as him wanting to prove and control everything and anyone (Cus he's a man!) but being stuck in that demographic because his unbearable and vile personality is a force that nobody can look past once they've outgrown the possible fear and idolization period of anyone but also n*loth in particular.

[mantisgodsdomain]

Anyways, to those who have been wondering what we've been doing during our impromptu Tumblr Vacation or whatever we're calling it, we've been trying to find a playthrough of Baldur's Gate 3 that is made by someone who doesn't annoy the shit out of us, and also tormenting Karlach Cliffgate (as you do)

[rmorde]

Trigun Manga Reaction

Here we go! Chapter 8 Volume... Huh?

Voulme 2? I thought this is still Volume 1. Am I tripping?

Anyway! Just a moment of appreciation for this parody page of he cover.

This while thing is so "busy" yet it still make sense. There's so many elements layering on top of each other. It should be a confusing mess. However, I can still easily pick out the four components that tells a story.

Component 1: Vash as a happy salary man being served a drink by a geisha (judging from the hairstyle and accessory) with shadowed eyes on the opposite end of the page.

Component 2: BDN at the dead center. The text makes it a bit difficult to confirm if he has a top knot, but he definitely is rocking a traditional Japanese look. He looks menacingly at Vash as he drinks.

Component 3: Meryl and Milly running in a hurry but for two clearly different purposes. Meryl looks like a traditional restaurant staff frantically trying to serve a lot of guests. Meanwhile, Milly doesn't look she's working anywhere near the food service industry with her get up and the tool that she has on hand.

Component 4: The Bad Lads drinking in celebration while an ambulance seems to be sounding its sirens as it parked near them.

Look. I may seem to be too obsessed with this gag page but it's crazy how its a fucking busy mess that still works at telling a cohesive story!

With just this two page drawing, I can infer easily that someone is in danger and may need to be hospitalized - so the ambulance was called and asked to stand by. Milly is probably the heroine about to save the day with the overworked yet eager to help Meryl. The party the Bad Lads are having is a big distraction at a possible murder attempt starring Vash as the victim, the geisha as the accomplice, and BDN as the mastermind.

I'M SORRY BUT HOW THE FUCK?!!!

And don't get me started on the scaling of each figure and the silhouettes. Just... I'll just repeat, Nightow is amazing for how pretty AND technical his drawing is. It's so clean. Wow...

Sorry for getting derailed. So, back to the chapter.

Ok. I lied. Let me just appreciate Winter Mery and Milly here. I love them so much and they so fucking cute here with their dynamic pose... solid silhouette... Clean fucking lines... Sorry... Give me a minute!!!

Sigh~

Interesting. So, '98 rearranged the sequence of events here. This happened a bit later... which I think is better. It adds more impact on Vash's duel against BDN.

These guys are no stormtrooper shooters. They having really good aim!

They didn't hit Vash. Okay. Maybe the tails of his coat now have fresh bullet holes, but aside from that, Vash is fairly intact. The Bad Lads have great accuracy.

This is an intriguing way of drawing a spinning gun. It's simple but effective in visually communicating that that is what BDN is doing. A good choice. Thinking about it... If three twirling guns in a blur of circles were drawn, it would be too distracting and BDN will be overwhelmed in the panel.

Cool foreshortening. Incredible detail on the filigree. And a bonus Goofy Face Vash!

So so fucking glad '98 was faithful to the manga with these scenes. Meryl and Milly were such badasses here.

Huh... Well that's a huge difference. There's not much:

GASP! It'S VaSH tHe STampeDE!

vASh ThE StAMpEdE?!

VASH THE STAMPEDE!!!

It can get a bit much... sometimes in '98. So, this is refreshing.

WHAT...

WHAT THE FLYING FUCK?!!!

So, those lines by Miss Purple Avenger from the filler episode were originally from BRILLIANT DYNAMITES NEON?!

I-

Oooohhh.... Pretty art... Wait no... I can't distracted. I'm mad!

I'M VERY VERY MAD!!!

OML! This is much more intense! IT ADDS SO MUCH WEIGHT TO THE DUEL!

Oh my goodness... This nuance... WHY WAS THIS CHANGED?!

Not to say that Miss Purple Avenger and the episode featuring her was bad. It was actually great! Her version of July was nightmare inducing... and her confrontation with Vash was truly tragic too but.... Uhm...uh... AAHHHH!!!! I CAN'T CHOOSE! THEY'RE BOTH GOOD!

Oh... break my heart into fucking pieces will you huh?!

LOOK AT THESE! Manga Vash getting cheered on by the people! People were supporting him! He is being treated nicely as he deserved.

Even in '98! It was not as overt at this page. However, that scene of the captain from the beginning of this chapter replaced these panels instead and is just as effective. '98 Vash has people believing the good in him.

TRISTAMP VASH WAS ROBBED!!! HE NEVER HAD THESE!!! That poor precious boy! The few precious people who supports him only showed up near the end... and... and...

Now getting even more upset again with the Jeonora Episodes in Tristamp!

It's so not fair!

Oooh. A cinematic page!

HOLY SHIT!!! THESE PAGES ARE AMAZING!

I can't believe this. This fight is better in the manga!

I am not dissing Studio Madhouse for what they've done tho. The '98 Duel was epic too! They did great! But all these crazy angles and perspectives in the manga just elevate the overall awesomeness of the gunfight. It's just more immersive.

Tbf to the '98 anime, this is a nightmare to animate faithfully. With the technology and techniques at the time, this would be so difficult to pull off beautifully - going topsy turvy in one smooth motion for two characters at the same time in a fight scene with a complicated moving background? Yeah... The animation staff would go insane. It's totally understandable that they simplified this duel into extreme close ups and strong facial + gun drawings instead.

I hope Studio Orange re-hashes this fight in some way tho... or does the Episode 1 duel count?

Sigh... With the my discovery that Miss Purple Avenger's lines were actually BDN's, and that the outrage towards Vash for not remembering anything about July belongs to the Bad Lads', these words have become so much more meaningful.

It's also now more effective at convincing me that Brilliant Dynamites Neon have hidden depths.

Oh... Ow... The detailing here is just ow for the hands of an artist. Perhaps I overreacting, but those fine lines in the crooks and crannies make me wince.

Once again tag responses:

@revenantghost

Yeah. The more I see his work, the more I'm awed by his skills. That's a cool detail that his design incorporate realism. I thought the glasses are for the light tho? But maybe it's like those the Olympian gunners wore during the competition?

The dead REALLY haunting the narrative? Looking forward to it!

@takeshidude

Ok. Monthly publication are still grueling but at least its not as nightmarish with weekly mangakas. No wonder the quality is consistent with the art. Nightow was allowed to breathe.

You make a good point. '98 did have a bit of a mystery woven into it. We know Vash the Stampede - we follow his misadventures and people kept saying who he is ad nauseam in every episode. However, we don't really know know him for quite a long time. It's a different, but no less interesting, spin to the story.

Which kinda explains I'm misremembering some scenes and characterizations? The last third of '98 made a long lasting impression that I kinda forgot about Vash's horn dogginess.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Full Tech Day One pic today from kiko laureano (denizen of skid row / ensemble) & video (that's four seconds of "ya never know" playing over the static image) from & ft. marcia milgrom dodge (director / choreographer) double captioning "there might be puppets in this musical ;)" & "Well Shake my hand! Come see LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS @guthrietheater featuring @actually_will_roland's hand!"

[opens-up-4-nobody]

The way that the sun hits leaves and clouds. I feel like I could watch the colors change forever. If I could slow down for that long.